


Reality in 3 Parts

by waldorph



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M, Multiple Narrators, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-28
Updated: 2008-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-07 03:38:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waldorph/pseuds/waldorph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the swing of a tire iron, Dean made a choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reality in 3 Parts

**1.**  
_This is how it was._

Dean was beautiful, all angry red lines and black spiderwebbing through him. Raw power. Such a bea-ut-i-ful soul. Absolutely _gorgeous_.

Alastair had had Dean for decades, spans of time, knew him. Tasted him. _Felt_ him. He hadn't had someone resist him for so long in eons—can't remember the last one. It all gets so boring, the capitulation, these weaker demons who will never claw out of the pit. He is an artiste who's been given mud to work in, and now he has marble.

Everyone was going on and on and _on_ about _ "Sam Winchester"_, supposedly greatest thing since sliced bread. Well, Alastair hadn't seen much out of Sammy boy, and Azazel could never convince him otherwise, but if Sammy-boy's the reason he'd got Dean…

Well. There might have been _something_ to all the hype. But not all of it. And not the way they meant it.

Because Sam Winchester's not gonna be their fucking salvation, wasn't then, isn't now.

It's gonna be Dean Winchester. Alastair knew it.

And then it all goes sour. He gets word of it, that there's an angel who's Fallen. Shrugs. Thinks it'll be a playmate for Lilith, he's got his own, so what does he care? She might send it over to him— they're good pals, he and Lilith.

And then it's there, standing in front of him.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he sneers. It doesn't answer, tilts its head like maybe it's working on becoming a bird instead of just having the fucking wings.

"I have come for Dean Winchester," it says.

"Ya can't have him," he sneers. "Dean-boy's, well…he's mine now."

"You have no part of him," it replies. It turns, all that white and blue light burning away the black and red in Dean, shoving into him and it's just _obscene_.

"He'll have to choose, you know!" he hurls after the angel as it speeds away with _his_ pet. "Someday I'll make him choose."

Sooner, rather than later, he thinks, peering up a ribcage to find the fluttering heart of a new soul. Wouldn't do to have Dean-boy forgetting him, and he's playing his own apocalypse game.

 

**2.**  
_This is what happened._

The plan was to set them up and then stand back and watch the fireworks. Sam guesses he figured the angels would win, somehow, but still, he'd wanted them (Dean) out of the way of this microcosm of the apocalypse.

So when Castiel starts to go down, just staring up at Alastair, Sam flinches, but figures it will all be okay. Somehow. That if it comes to that he'll _make_ it okay.

Dean, though.

Dean doesn't hesitate, moves out of their little nook past the bail of hay. Sam grabs for him, stands up to back him up because this wasn't really part of the plan (and someone, _Ruby_, should have pointed out that Dean hasn't followed a plan in his _life_). Dean reaches back, grabs the tire iron without looking, like he knew it was there or expected it to be there and shit, see, that's why Dean's the best hunter Sam knows: Dean can scan a room and assess their assets faster than Dad even could manage to. Dean knows where his exits are, knows what he can use.

Sam watches- doesn't _stop him_ because Dean's eyes are hard and angry as he aims and swings.

Hard.

Sam fliches because shit, anything else but a demon and the head would have _fallen off_, and then Alastair begins chastising him.

And—the thing is, Dean's got that look. That look he got at the end of his year: that tired—no. That bone-weary look of defeat. Resignation.

Dean's been tired a long time: Dean was tired when Sam first came back, after Jess. But now—Dean just has this look.

Sam'd thought—Dean's been doing better. Been close to his old self, fast on the draw and ruthless as he's got to be but not a bit more, pissed and obnoxious, but himself. This brings everything crashing back down, and Castiel doesn't even stand.

Doesn't move to defend them, just watches Anna play out her role.

But later, when Uriel's realized what they've done (and Sam's gotta wonder—did Castiel know? Did he suspect, when Dean called him and 'caved'? Because Sam knows Dean better'n anyone, but he thinks Castiel some days might give him a run for his money), Castiel touches Uriel's shoulder gently, just puts it there, doesn't grip, doesn't yank.

And Uriel stops. Finishes his threat, but moves back, out of Dean's space.

Castiel watches Dean, who recovers and then falters again when their eyes lock and Sam's got a whole lot of questions, out of all of this, but mostly he just wants to know what the fuck is going on between the angel and his brother.

Then they're gone, and Dean's breaking down on the side of the road, and Sam's not thinking about angels, anymore, because _Dean_.

**3.**   
_This is how it is._

He looks at the ceiling and says, "Anna your boss again?"

"She has been…reassigned."

Didn't expect much else, but still. Probably best to keep her away from Uriel.

"What's his deal?" Dean grunts, shoving himself up. Sam's off with Ruby, and Dean's trying to make peace with it.

Mostly he's just grinding his teeth to dust and staring at motel ceilings.

Occasionally having an angel drop by.

"Uriel sees things without nuance. They are or are not."

"Shades of grey." He'd never admit it, but he likes that he doesn't have to explain the leaps in conversation. They keep up with each other—it's nice not to have to explain. Just say.

"Something to that effect, yes. And you vex him. He does not like the idea of following your orders."

"But you don't mind."

"I Raised you from perdition."

And it means something. Just like the looks mean something, the way Castiel stares, watches, doesn't get the whole idea of personal space.

He was human, Dean'd just kiss him, fuck him, and be done.

But he's not human, and Dean can remember when he wasn't a he. Was just a thing, terrifying and all-consuming and laying him to waste, taking all the broken pieces of him that had scattered around hell—the bits of him demons had collected like souvenirs—and melted them back together, shoved him into his body and Dean still has the scorchmarks to prove where he was held.

Raised ugly tissue, too sensitive. Way too sensitive, which Anna'd realized. That had been too strange, when she'd slid her hand over Castiel's handprint and Dean had felt—

Nothing he'd ever felt before. But she wasn't the hand he'd wanted there, and that freaked him out a little.

Freaked him out a lot, fine.

"Yeah." Dean rubs the back of his neck. "I remember."

"I know."

Remembers the way he'd just stopped. Given in, shut down. Remembers the way he'd flung himself at others, because he was hurting and tortured and every lash he hurled down, every scream he drew from a raw throat, that was catharsis and damnation, all of it a vicious cycle feeding itself, with Alastair there, pressing kisses to the skin under his ear and murmuring. It was never affection, never real, never gratifying, but after 30 years Dean'd realized Sam wasn't coming for him, and he was tired. And he'd never been picky in life where he'd gotten his comfort from, so, he'd reasoned as he lifted the whip, why should he care in death?

Soft touch on his cheek. Dean looks up.

"You chose me."

Waits. Okay, some days, he has no idea how to follow Castiel's leaps of conversation.

Castiel smiles slightly. "I am not Fallen."

Dean frowns. "You have got to start making sense, because I'm—"

"You chose me, not Alastair."

Remembers the echo, the threat—the knowledge that he was going to have to chose between the horror of the thing that was holding him and the horror of the thing he was leaving.

"Funny. Thought I was just hitting a jackass in the face with a tire iron," Dean snorts, moves his face. Castiel lets him slide from his touch. "Doesn't explain why you think you were gonna Fall."

"The two are connected." He seems…it's this look. It's not Sam's grin, not Dad's ducked smile, not Bobby's eye roll, but it's— it's confusing as hell, because some days he swears the angel cares—not just…not just cares, but gives a damn. Like Sammy, or Dad or Bobby.

Maybe like something else. Something new.

Castiel reaches out again, and puts his hand over the mark on Dean's left arm. It's like being hit in the back of the head, and he remembers. Remembers being yanked in, and then…then this feeling this feeling of being whole just…_shoved_ into him. Pure and terrifying and absolving, but so good. Like coming after takin' a real long time, forcing himself not to for ages until he has to shudder into it or die, and it all just hits, and for a little while it's all just pleasure.

It was like that. Like coming.

Sexual.

Confusing as all hell.

"I don't—"

"Grace may create," Castiel replies. "I created your salvation."

"So—wait. The tree. Anna's Grace created the tree, and it—the Grace was in the tree," Dean says, frowning. Because there is no way. No fucking way he could have had this from the start and he was just too stupid to figure it out.

"Had you chosen Alastair—"

"I wouldn't—"

"Even by remaining immobile, as the plan dictated. Even by choosing inaction, you would have chosen him."

He hadn't even thought. Maybe if he had, he'd've hesitated, but he'd just—moved.

"I couldn't," he says.

Castiel leans down, says, "I know." His lips slide over Dean's, chapped and uneven but knowing, and it's a first kiss but it's not, because it's like Castiel just knows him, and Dean tilts his head up into it.

Castiel pulls back enough to look him in the eyes, still strangely serious but real affection, and Jesus that's just—

"Thank you."


End file.
